“Hin-m-m. Could be. It still looks a bit dangerous to me.”
Gregg eyed MacPherson. “I don’t think so. There’s no reason at all for anticipating trouble. Dime-novel stuff.”
“What is life but a dime novel?” MacPherson asked moodily, rather bottle-dizzy from the unaccustomed liquor.
“That’s your way of looking at it. And the way you live it.” Gregg’s tone was unpleasant, chiefly because he was allergic to MacPherson’s casually hopeless philosophy. “Try being logical for a change. The race is advancing, in spite of dictators and professional reformers. The industrial revolution started speeding up social mutations. Natural mutations tie in with that. It’s progressive. In the next five hundred years we’ll have covered as much ground as we did in the last ten thousand. A snowball rolling downhill.”
“So what?”
“So the ultimate result is logic,” Gregg said, “and that doesn’t mean a cold-blooded inhuman logic, either. Not when it’s human logic. It takes emotions and psychology into account. It will, that is. There won’t be Great Brains wanting to conquer universes, or enslaving the remnants of humans. We’ve seen that. Halison—he was willing to talk, but in too much of a hurry just then. He said he’d explain later.”
“All I know is that there’s a hole in the wall,” MacPherson said. “It’s one of those things that doesn’t happen. Now it’s happened. Sorry I’ve got my wind up.”
“That’s the way you’re keeping your emotional balance,” Gregg told him. “I prefer to do it along the lines of mathematics. Working out the equation, from what factors we’ve got. Induction won’t tell us much, but it shows what a tremendous thing the whole must be. A perfect world—”
“How d’you know?”
Gregg was stumped. “Well, it seemed that way. In a few thousand years civilization will have time to apply technology and use the nuances. Physically and mentally. The best part of it is that they won’t be snooty about it. They cant. Anyhow, Halison wasn’t.”
“That hole isn’t getting any bigger,” MacPherson said. “I’ve been watching a spot on the wallpaper.”
“Well,” Gregg said inconclusively, “it’s not getting smaller, either. Wish I knew how to open the doors in there. So damn much I can’t understand by myself!”
“Have another drink. That may help.”
It didn’t, much. Gregg didn’t quite dare go through the valve again, for fear it might close suddenly, and he sat with MacPherson, smoking, drinking, and talking, while the night moved slowly on. From time to time they reexamined the book. That told them nothing.
Halison remained absent. At three a.m. the valve began closing. Gregg remembered what the man from the future had said; that the gap would open at night and remain closed by day. Presumably it would open again. If it didn’t, then the chance of a hundred lifetimes had been muffed!
In half an hour the valve had shut completely, leaving no trace on the wallpaper. MacPherson, glassy about the eyes, returned to his own apartment. Gregg locked the book in a desk drawer and went to bed to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the alarm roused him.
Later, dressing, Gregg phoned Haverhill Research to say he would not be in that day. In case Halison showed up, he wanted to be on hand. But Halison did not arrive. Gregg spent the morning crushing out cigarettes and thumbing through the book. In the afternoon he sent it by messenger to Courtney, at the university, with a brief note asking for information. Courtney, whose forte was languages, telephoned to say he was baffled.
Naturally he was curious. Gregg spent an awkward five minutes putting him off, and decided to be more wary next time. He was not anxious to release his secret to the world. Even MacPherson—well, that couldn’t be helped now. But this was Manning Gregg’s discovery, and it was only fair that he should have first rights.
Gregg’s selfishness was completely unmercenary. Had he analyzed his motives, he would have realized that he was greedy for intellectual intoxication—that was the only suitable term. Gregg did have a really fine, keen-edged brain, and took an intense delight in using it. He could get positively drunk on the working out of technical problems, the same pleasure an engineer feels at sight of a beautifully executed blueprint, or a pianist confronted by an intricate composition. He was a perfectionist. And to be given a key to the perfect world of the future—
He was not certain of its perfection, of course, but later he felt more certain. Especially after the valve slowly began opening at 6:30 p.m. that evening.
This time Gregg went through as soon as the hole was large enough to admit him. He had plenty of time. His search for a door proved fruitless, but he did make another discovery—the blue walls were in reality the doors of immense cupboards, full of extraordinary objects. Books, of course—though he could read none of them. Some of the charts were tantalizingly on the edge of translation into his own focus of understanding, but not quite. Pictures, three-dimensional and tinted, proved fascinating in their dim glimpses of the life of the future. It was, he suspected, a happy sort of life.
The cupboards—
They held the damnedest things. No doubt they were all perfectly familiar to Halison, but what, for example, could Gregg make of a two-foot doll, modeled after a future human, that recited what seemed to be poetry in an unknown tongue? The rhyme scheme was remarkable, from what Gregg could understand of it—an intricate, bizarre counterpoint that had a definite emotional effect, even in the alien language.
And then there were more of the rubbery, glassy blocks, with moving lights inside; and metallic frameworks—one of which Gregg recognized as a model of the solar system; and a hydroponic garden with chameleon qualities; and plastics of possibly mythical animals that could be merged to produce other animals that were crosses or sports—an incredible demonstration of pure genetics, this; and more, and more, and morel Gregg got dizzy. He had to go to the windows to recuperate.
The rainbow lights still flashed through the dark. Far below he could make out intermittent blazes of radiance, as though star shells were bursting. For a shocked instant he thought of war. Another glow, fountaining up, relieved him; by craning his neck, he could see tiny figures posturing and dancing in midair in a tumultuous sea of color, perhaps a ballet without gravity. No, this was the perfect world.
He was, suddenly, overcome by an intense desire to emerge from this silent room into that blazing, joyous tumult outside. But he could find no way of opening the windows. And the springs that controlled the doors still eluded him. It had not been easy to discover the concealed buttons that operated the cupboards, Gregg remembered.
He thought, with grim amusement, of old Duffey at the Haverhill, and how the man would react to sight of all this. Well, the devil with Duffey. Later, the world could drink, but he wanted—and deserved—the first ecstatic sip from this bottle of vintage wine.
He hoped someone would come into Halison’s apartment, perhaps Ranil-Mens. There might be some semantic difficulties at first, unless the visitor had troubled to learn archaic English—which wasn’t likely—but these wouldn’t be insurmountable. If only Ranil-Mens would appear, to point out how the gadgets in the cupboards worked! A fine spot for a physicist!
Nobody appeared, however, and, bearing booty, Gregg returned to his own time-sector, finding MacPherson sprawled in a chair drinking highballs and eying the valve skeptically.
“How’d you get in?” Gregg demanded.
“Walked in,” MacPherson said. “The door was open. Halison was standing inside, so I stopped to see what was up. He’s real, all right.” Ice cubes clinked.
“Halison here? Mac, what—”
“Take it easy. I came in and asked him who he was. ‘Halison,’ he said. ‘I just dropped in for a minute’—or words to the effect. ‘Gregg wants to see you,’ I said. ‘Haven’t time yet,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for something. I’ll be back by Thursday to see Ranil-Mens. I’ll tell Gregg anything he wants to know then. I can tell him plenty, too—I’m labeled as a genius.’ All this was i
n a sort of double talk, but I managed to understand it. After that he went out. I ran after him. ‘Where’s Gregg?’ I yelled. He waved back toward the . . . the valve, and scooted off downstairs. I stuck my head through the hole in the wall, saw you, and started to feel funny. So I fixed a highball and sat down to wait. That guy gives me the creeps.”
Gregg dropped his burden on a couch. “Damn! So I missed him. Well, he’ll be back, that’s one consolation. Why the devil does he give you the creeps?”
“He’s different,” MacPherson said simply. “Nothing human is alien. Don’t tell me he’s not human.”
“Oh, he’s human, all right, but it isn’t our sort of humanity. Even his eyes. He looks right through you, as though he’s seeing into the fourth dimension.”
“Maybe he does,” Gregg speculated. “I wish . . . mph. He’ll tell me anything I want to know, eh? I’ll have a drink on that. What, a chance! And he’s a genius, even for his age. I suppose it’d take a genius to work out that space-time business.”
MacPherson said quietly, “It’s his world, Manning, not yours. If I were you, I’d stay out of it.”
Gregg laughed, his eyes very bright. “Under other circumstances, I’d agree. But I know something about that world now. The pictures in the books, for example. It is a perfect world. Only just now it’s a world beyond my comprehension. Those people have gone far beyond us in everything, Mac. I doubt if we’re capable of understanding everything there. Still, I’m not exactly a moron. I’ll learn. My training will help. I’m a technician and a physicist.”
“All right. Suit yourself. I’m drunk now because I’ve been sitting looking at that hole in the wall and wondering if it’d snap shut forever.”
“Nuts,” Gregg said.
MacPherson got up, weaving on his feet. “I’m going to bed. Call me if you need me for anything. G’night.”
“Night, Mac. Oh, say. You haven’t mentioned this to anyone, have you?”
“No. I won’t. And Halison’s eyes scared me, even though they had a friendly look in them. Man and superman. Urp!” MacPherson floated away in a haze of Scotch mist. Gregg chuckled and closed the door carefully.
Whatever else he might be, Halison was no superman. He hadn’t evolved to that extreme, or, obviously, there could have been no meeting ground between the two—Homo sapiens and Homo superior. There was much that was mysterious about the man from the future—his enigmatic quest through time, for example—but by Thursday, Gregg hoped, he’d know at least some of the answers. If he could only curb his impatience till then.
He didn’t go to work the next day, either. That was Wednesday. He spent his time pondering over the gadgets he had brought back from the future, finding a cold sort of comfort in that.
He waited till hunger pangs could no longer be ignored, and then decided to step around the corner for a sandwich. On second thought, he changed his mind and ate across the street, at a fly-blown quick-lunch joint, where he could keep his eye on the apartment house.
He saw Halison go in.
Choking on a mouthful, Gregg flung a handful of change at the waiter and dashed out. On the steps he nearly stumbled and caught himself by clutching wildly at the surprised doorman. The elevator—
Gregg cursed its slowness. His apartment door was open. Halison was emerging.
“Tawnishly hello,” Halison said. “I returned for a clean shirt.”
“Wait,” Gregg said desperately. “I want to talk to you.”
“No time yet. I’m still searching marjentar—haven’t found—”
“Halison! When will you talk to me?”
“Wednesday night. Tomorrow. I must be back then to see Ranil-Mens Thursday. Who is wiser than I, by the way.”
“The valve won’t shut permanently?”
“Sar no. Not till the mental power runs down. That will not be for zanentho nearly two weeks yet.”
“I was afraid I might be caught on the other side—”
“The serving robots bring food by day; you would not go hungry. You could return the next night when the valve opened maronail again. No danger. None in my world harms another. To help and heal for commonweal—a bad translation. Your language—stinks sarkoment.”
“But—”
Halison flicked away like a phantom and was gone down the stairs. Gregg started after him, but was easily outdistanced. Glumly he, returned to his apartment. Tomorrow night, however—
Tomorrow night!
Well, he could afford the time for a genuine dinner now, at any rate. Comforted by the thought, Gregg went to his favorite restaurant and ate veal scallopini. After that, he forgathered with MacPherson and relayed his conversation with Halison. MacPherson was not cheerful.
“None in his world harms another,” Gregg quoted.
“All the same—I don’t know. I’m still scared.”
“I’m going through again and see what I can pick up.”
He did. He didn’t wait till the valve was large enough, and went through headfirst, crashing back from the wall and thumping his head against a table. Since it was satisfactorily resilient, that didn’t matter. The future has its conveniences.
That night was a repetition of the preceding one. Gregg’s curiosity rose to burning pitch. All about him lay the secrets of a culture far beyond his own—and the key was just beyond his fingertips. It was difficult to wait now.
But he had to wait. He still hadn’t fathomed the secret of the door, and he’d forgotten to ask Halison about it. If a telephone or televisor existed, it was hidden in some secret nook he couldn’t locate. Oh, well.
Wednesday Gregg went to work, but was home early, chafing. MacPherson dropped in briefly. Gregg discouraged him. He wanted no three-way conversation. He began outlining on paper the questions he meant to ask Halison.
At six forty-five the valve began to open.
At midnight Gregg was biting his nails.
At two he woke MacPherson and begged the man to have a drink with him.
“He’s forgotten,” Gregg said tonelessly, lighting a cigarette and crushing it out. “Or something. Damn!”
“There’s plenty of time,” MacPherson grunted. “Take it easy. I only hope he doesn’t show up.”
They waited a long time. The valve began to close slowly. Gregg cursed in a heartfelt monotone. The telephone rang.
Gregg answered, talked briefly, and cradled the receiver. His face was strained as he turned to MacPherson.
“Halison’s been killed. A truck hit him. They found one of my cards in the pocket of his suit.”
“How d’you know it’s Halison?”
“They described him. Mac, what a chance! And that so-and-so has to go and walk in front of a truck. Blast him to—”
“Ways of Providence,” MacPherson said, sotto voce, but Gregg heard him.
“There’s still Ranil-Mens.”
“Whoever he is.”
“Some friend of Halison, of course!” Gregg’s tone was knife-edged. “He’ll visit Halison’s apartment tomorrow—Thursday. The first possible contact with that world, Mac. I’ve only been there at night. And I couldn’t get out of the room—couldn’t locate the doors. But if I’m there tomorrow when Ranil-Mens comes—”
“What if the valve doesn’t open again?”
“Halison said it would. That’s logical enough. Mental energy, like any other, has to drain away gradually unless it’s cut off. And Halison’s death certainly didn’t cut it off.” Gregg nodded toward the slowly closing valve.
“In the words of the prophet,” MacPherson said, “don’t.” He went out and made himself a drink. Most of that drink was straight Scotch. A cold, sick fear was crawling up MacPherson’s spine.
They talked inconclusively for a while. In the end, Gregg went through. His face showed through the hole like a portrait in a circular frame.
“So far, so good,” he announced. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mac. And I’ll have plenty to tell you.”
MacPherson’s nails dug into his palms. “W
ant to change your mind? I wish—”
Gregg grinned. “No chance. I’m the boy that’s going to get the answers this time. Get it through your thick skull, Mac, there’s no danger.”
“O.K.”
“Hand me a drink. There’s no liquor on this side . . . thanks. Luck!”
“Luck,” MacPherson said. He sat waiting. The valve shrank.
“It’ll be too late in a minute, Manning.”
“It’s too late now. See you later, son. Six thirty tomorrow. And maybe I’ll bring Ranil-Mens with me.”
Gregg lifted the glass. The valve slowly shrank to dime-size. And vanished.
MacPherson didn’t move. He sat there, waiting. He was afraid, coldly and definitely and unarguably, though, of course, illogically.
And then, without turning, he sensed the presence of someone in the room.
Halison walked into his range of vision. “Too savishly late,” he said. “Well, tomorrow night will do. Though I am sorry to have missed Ranil-Mens.”
The fumes of alcohol seemed to whirlwind in MacPherson’s skull. “The truck,” he said. “The truck. The accident—”
Halison shrugged. “My metabolism is different. Catalepsy is frequent to me. The nervous shook threw me into that septol state. I woke in the . . . what? . . . morgue, explained a little of what had happened, came here. But too late. I have not yet found what I have been searching for.”
“Just what have you been searching for?” MacPherson asked.
“I am looking for Halison,” Halison said, “because he has been lost in the past, and Halison will not be whole again till I find him. A genius must be whole. I worked hard, hard, and one day Halison slipped away and was gone in the past. So I must search.”
MacPherson turned into ice, realizing what the look in Halison’s eyes meant.
“Ranil-Mens,” he said. “Then . . . oh, my God!”
Halison put out a groping, six-fingered hand. “Mordishly. You know what they said. But they were wrong. I was isolated, to heal. That was wrong, too, but it gave me time to open the door to the past and look for Halison where Halison is lost. The robot servants gave me food and I had quiet, which I zeverti needed. But the toys they placed in my room I did not need and did not use often.”
Collected Fiction Page 335
